Past Lives

    Boothill, buzzards, buttes, badlands,
    an old shack on the river’s edge
    and the lazy brown hills
    climbing away into pale silhouette
    high blue, faraway.
    And at dusk
    smoke from the fires,
    saddle smells, carbine and cordite
    sweet earth
    and the fragrant wind out of the dark.
    Then the long nights
    strewn with stars,
    almond blossom white and bright
    in the cold vault of sky.
    Yes, I remember, I remember.
    Ride on ghost cowboy,
    this life ain’t big enough for both of us.

       – Jogyata.